


The Pink Sweater

by amethystviolist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gift Fic, Knitting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystviolist/pseuds/amethystviolist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My friend came up with this prompt: "What if Cas learned how to knit and he made Sam and Dean sweaters? And if he made Dean's pink, since it used to be a masculine color. So Cas thinks Dean is going to like it because pink is totally masculine and then is disappointed when Dean pulls it out and gets confused. So Dean notices and puts the sweater on anyway to make him happy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pink Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Again, credit to my friend who is brilliant. Story set at Christmas, season not specified, but Cas does have full angel mojo, if you were wondering. Enjoy!

Castiel looked at the knotted yarn in front of him and fought down a rising sense of hopelessness.

“I don’t think that this is right,” he said uncertainly, brow knit in confusion. The old woman opposite him squinted at his knitting needles and mess of string through her glasses.

“Honey, I don’t think you could get more wrong,” she replied bluntly. Castiel compared her perfectly even stitches of various colors and patterns, despite her shaking hands, to his own jumble of an attempt.

“Try it again, sweetheart,” the elderly woman continued more kindly. “Take another ball o’ yarn an’ start over. I’ll help ya a little more this time.” Castiel rooted around in the wicker basket for a moment, examining the colors of yarn with careful consideration. It had never seemed very important for Castiel to notice the colors of the clothes the Winchesters wore, but now he wished he had paid more attention to anything they wore with colors other than gray and brown and black. He’s already tangled up all the yarn in those colors.

“Who you knittin’ for, anyway?” continued the white-haired woman. “It’s not many a young man like yo’self, volunteer for the home or not, who wants to learn how ta work the needles.” Castiel glanced up at her seat in the wheelchair from his place on the floor, realizing an explanation was required.

“Well, I… I have discovered that it’s common here to give gifts at midwinter. They call it Christmas and seem to think that they’re celebrating the birth of Jesus.” The old lady looked politely confused, but didn’t interrupt, so Castiel forged on, taking a deep breath as he continued. “And I don’t have many friends, not since the war, certainly, but these two…” The angel took another breath and stuttered through what he was trying to say. “These two brothers, they mean a lot to me. They call me family when no one else will. They… watch out for me. They’ve ‘got my back’, uh, not literally, of course. They think they need to protect me, and I know I have to watch over them, because without them…” Castiel hesitated, looking away from his elderly companion. He was thinking of the way Dean laughed. And his shameless, comforting hugs that smelled of gunpowder and cheap soap. The little smile Dean wore when Castiel didn’t understand yet another of his allusions to popular culture. Dean’s eyes, and they way they would grip Castiel’s, the gold flecks nestled in the emerald green like stardust. The lady in the wheelchair watched as the young man grew the tiniest of smiles, his deep blue eyes seeing memories that she didn’t share. Finally, Castiel found the words, and met the woman’s warm brown eyes.

“Because without him- them-” Castiel corrected himself quickly, “I am nothing.” The aged woman felt her heart go out to the young volunteer, and she leaned over to grasp his shoulder comfortingly.

“I think that they would love any gift you gave them, if these friends mean so much to you.” The lady in her wheelchair wondered if there was more to these friends than the young man was telling her, but politely said nothing.

“That’s very kind of you,” Castiel replied politely, finally settling on a dark blue yarn for Sam, “But I want their gifts to be special. That’s why I want to make the sweaters myself.”

“Then let’s get started!” The elderly woman cried, leaning back in her chair and putting aside her own project. “What do you want to make?”

“Sweaters,” answered Castiel decisively. “This navy blue will be nice for Sam. Do you have a suggestion for my other friend?” The older woman smiled a bit at the concern in his eyes, and started helping the dark-haired volunteer unwind the yarn.

“Well now, what’s he like, this friend of yours?” she asked. Castiel watched her fingers, copying her motions with precision.

“He, uh, his name is Dean,” began Castiel, a small smile spreading across his face. “Dean Winchester.” Castiel wasn’t sure when he began sharing stories about their adventures together, killing demons and ‘one time I accidentally flew us to Nigeria’ and other shared times. The woman in front of him listened to it all, for hours, and when Castiel finally stopped talking, his mouth was dry, his throat scratchy, and in his lap lay several rectangles of knitted cloth. He had barely even noticed he was knitting anymore.

“I’ll sew it all up into a sweater, okay sugar? You did it all yo’self, but I’d hate for you ta put a sleeve on his chest an’ ruin all the hard work you’ve done today.” She smiled kindly at him, and Castiel beamed back before remembering that he was supposed to be made of sterner stuff. He quickly cleared his throat and stopped smiling.

“What color would be best for Dean’s sweater?” the angel asked again, his gravelly voice even rougher than usual from hours of talking.

“It’s up to you, of course. But I was wonderin’ if maybe somethin’ like-”

“Oh,” Castiel interrupted, frowning as he pawed through the wicker basket of yarn. He looked back up at his companion. “There’s only one color left.”

“What color is it, honey?” she asked with mild concern.

“Pink,” replied Castiel, holding up a bright rosey ball of the stuff to demonstrate. “Do you think that’s okay?” The woman didn’t say anything for a moment, thinking about what she’d heard that afternoon. Sure, her hearing wasn’t what it once was, but she did pick up that this Dean character was one heck of a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’, ‘eat my meat like a man’ type of person; someone who prided himself in masculinity. Her concern that this Dean would disapprove of pink- a pink sweater no less- must have shown on her face, because the excited child-at-Christmas look was fading from the young man’s blue eyes.

“-and pink is generally considered a very masculine color, isn’t it?” Castiel was saying as the woman started to listen again. “It was last time I was here, but-”

“Sweetheart,” she interrupted his flood of worries seriously, staring at the volunteer, “I think he’d love whatever gift his friend gave him.” Castiel still looked uncertain, but nodded all the same.

“Thank you for your assistance today. I will return tomorrow, and we can make the second sweater. I’m sure you need your rest.” Castiel stood up with a slightly confused expression. Apparently sitting in one position for so long made his legs stiff. He would have to heal that and his throat when he exited the building.

“Like I can sleep in this noisy train station,” The woman snorted derisively. “Nurses comin’ and goin’ and hollerin’ up and down the hallways all night. No thanks ya, I say. I’ll stay up and sew this here sweater. You come back tomorrow at lunch, ya hear, son?” Castiel nodded understandingly, determination and hope in his eyes.

“I will.”

~

Dean Winchester had gotten some weird presents before. Yeah, there was one time when his dad got him a harpoon gun, and that year Sammy gave him half a candy bar, and then there was the whole thing with the nurse in Tuscaloosa, but this beat them all. Cas, the high and mighty angel of the Lord with 99 problems and a war on his shoulders, had gotten him a Christmas gift. And Sammy too, apparently.

“You didn’t have to give us presents, Cas,” Dean said awkwardly, taking the perfectly wrapped box from the angel. Sam ripped his open unceremoniously before Cas could answer and tugged the lid off the uncovered box.

“Wow,” Sam sputtered, pulling out a rather clumsily knitted navy sweater. “Cas… Cas, did you make this?” Castiel- were his lips twitching?- nodded once, and looked at his shoes.

“I wanted to give you something special, something a human friend would do, so I learned how to knit.” Sam seemed a little speechless, but tossed aside the box and ran his hand over the sweater.

“Wow,” he repeated. “Thanks, Cas.” Dean smiled at Cas’ little twitches. He knew it was the closest thing to a smile that he’d ever see from the stiff butt.

“And yours, Dean,” Castiel said, turning to his friend as Sam leaned back in his chair. Dean scrabbled at the paper until it tore, revealing a box similar to Sam’s. Almost reverently, he took the lid off the box, and withdrew… a horridly pink sweater. Dean felt his eyes widen and heat spread up his neck. From the motel’s rickety wooden table, he heard Sam’s muffled mix of a gasp and a laugh that quickly turned into a cough. Peeking around the bright pink atrocity, Castiel was staring at him with those freaking unfair blue eyes, his face full of hope and fear. Plain as day, Cas wanted his approval, and when Dean said nothing, Cas’s hope flickered visibly in his normally stoic face. Dean quickly flashed the man in tan a smile, and, trying not to grimace, tugged the sweater over his head. The scratchy yarn pulled at his hair as it went over his head, and Dean was suddenly overwhelmed by the warmth and comfort he drew from the gift, and not just that it was literally warming his torso.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean murmured, running a hand over the sleeve and focusing on the warmth and softness and not the color, not the color. “I love it.” Dean meant it as a white lie to spare Cas’s angel feelings, but warmth spread through his chest when he realized it was true. Not because it smelled like Cas, of course, that had nothing to do with it. He just appreciated the gift, and the time that went into it. Dean glanced at his brother and bit back a laugh. Sam seemed torn between disgust at his brother’s emotional baggage and laughter at the sight of Dean in a grandmother’s-day-out dream outfit. But when Dean looked to gauge Castiel’s reaction, thoughts of laughter vanished, and Dean almost fell off the narrow motel bed entirely.

Cas was smiling.

Castiel, the soldier of God with his angelic orders in that ridiculous trenchcoat, was actually freaking smiling. Teeth showing and everything. Dean felt his heart beat in his chest again, and realized he couldn’t remember when it had stopped. Heat spread from his neck to his face, and Dean was totally blaming the sweater for that.

“I’m glad you like it, Dean,” Cas said in a soft little voice, and Dean suddenly noticed how very, very blue Cas’s eyes were. Did all angels have such noticeable eyes? How had Dean not looked at them like this before? Sam cleared his throat loudly, and both Dean and Cas kind of started.

“If you’re going to thank him any more, get your own room,” Sam said, a small, teasing smile playing across his lips. Dean reddened and spluttered for a reply, and Castiel paled considerably, but Sam just laughed at their attempts to explain. Finally giving up at dispelling Sam’s suggestions, Castiel sat across from him and poured three glasses of whiskey. Sam grinned widely at his friend and his brother and tried not to say anything more about the staring, although he clearly wanted to tease them further. Dean buried his still-red face in his arms around the glass of whiskey, trying not to inhale the smell of _Cas_ from the sleeves of the bright pink sweater.

It was a good Christmas.


End file.
